


Lasting Damage

by Leamas



Category: Declare - Tim Powers
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 15:56:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10970553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leamas/pseuds/Leamas
Summary: on injuries that didn't properly heal





	Lasting Damage

Crouching on the office building with a clear sight into Kim Philby’s bathroom, Elena waited. She did not allow herself to think about how long she sat on the rooftop; the more she let herself focus on such things, the easier it would be to get distracted.

She shifted slightly, pulling her wrist back to better run the circulation through it. It wasn’t often that the old injury acted up, but it was cold outside. If she left her hand idle for too long, or too tensed as she waited to pull the trigger, there was always the chance that it could begin acting up again, falling numb or twitching, or sending a stab of pain along her nerves.

Elena’s failure would not be on the behalf of her own body. It had been years now since she received it: a quick pull on her wrist that was not intended to be so hard as to break it, as punishment for being too slow on the radio. It hadn’t been as bad as it could have been. Elena was able to continue operating the radio, and in later years she thought that perhaps that was why it had never healed correctly – but what would her alternative have been? She had only been thirteen; there would have been very little else for her to do.

She pulled her wrist back and massaged her thumb into her nerves, trying to warm it and to return full feeling to her fingers. It had been years since it was last as stiff as it was now, and it was rare she had an uncontrollable twitch anymore. The pain lessened after Elena’s unwilling time in the Lubyanka, and returned to her only in moments like this when the stakes were high, as though her body looked for a reason to sabotage her. The possibility that only she would hold her back in this final moment was too much. She had already betrayed herself, in a moment of moral weakness; she would not allow her own bodily weakness to steal her shot at redemption.

 

The initial fall had been an accident, as much as Burgess wished it weren’t. What had he expected of himself? It was a miracle that he had even made it so long, drunk for most of his days, without causing any prolonged damage to himself. He couldn’t hate his friend for pushing him, for it had been mutual; he couldn’t even resent the man for not immediately calling a doctor, and instead taking him home to try to look after such a grievous head injury himself. Could Guy say that he would have done any better? He thought about how many times he had left someone somewhere when they were too sozzled to be any fun; even if he came back for them later, or sent them home in a taxi, he couldn’t in good conscious say he usually cared.

The only person he could blame for any of this was himself, that was true. And perhaps he would have been able to give up the fight if he’d not been faced with the constant reminder of what he’d lost through his own idiocy and debauchery. His double hovered over him like the ghost of who he could have been – if only he hadn’t ruined himself for the world.

The comparison wasn’t a new one – he’d known for years that his better half was more suited for the world, and that if it were between the two of them he would always, always be the one better cast away. But never before had the weight of realisation struck Guy with such force.

There was no moment when he consciously decided to kill him. It simply happened. It was the only way to escape the overbearing shadow of comparison that would always leave him behind; it was the only way he could think of to be whole again.

 

There were mornings when Hale thought he may as well have never moved from the mountain; often, he still woke up tense and trembling, frozen and barely able to breathe. After being dismissed from the service – at least until he was called on again – he naively thought he would be able to carry on with his life where he left off, as though everything that happened was just a blemish. It wasn’t that simple. He carried what happened like a chill he couldn’t shake, or a sickness he could never recover from; as a cough somewhere deep in his lungs, the inevitable result of huddling in the cold, wet grass at the base of the mountain.

 

Theodora was only in his fifties, which he supposed was late enough in life that he really couldn’t expect not to feel the strain of his aging body; his career hadn’t exactly been gentle on him. The stress alone was enough to make any young man crumble. Having seen his share of action, truly didn’t stand a chance.

For the most part, the strain was not too terrible. There was a tiredness some morning, and the odd ache that crept up on him. He’d done his best to mind his health, doing his part to ensure that at the very least he wouldn’t become useless in his later years.

The most inconvenient thing would always be his bloody hand. Every finger had been broken, and although it healed well enough to be useable it still acted up in bad weather, or when it was too hot, or in the morning; when there were certain sorts of malevolent forces at work, it would seize up and he’d feel like his knuckles were being broken one by one again, even though it had happened years ago.

  

It was like being doubled and halved simultaneously; like being cut in two, but gracefully. The wound wasn’t one Philby ever remembered receiving. He doubted he would even feel it eat at him, if not for that he remembered what it was like to be whole.


End file.
